


Touch of Lavender

by texadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fill, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not taking no for answer, Sherlock invites himself over to Molly's flat to assist her with an experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch of Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> Combined prompt fill for rebka18 and hummelxberry from Tumblr.

“What are those for?” Sherlock’s hand holds the door to the lab half open, looking back at Molly and Mary.

Molly looks down to the small handful of test tubes descending into her purse and pushes them in farther.

Without thinking, Mary speaks up for her friend and whispers loudly, “Just borrowing a few for one of her home experiments.”

Sherlock’s eyes revert back to Molly and his right brow perks up in fascination.

“Thanks,” Molly mutters sarcastically to Mary under her breath. She’s about to elbow her friend in the arm when the door to the lab closes shut with a vibrating thud.

Sherlock is ten paces closer to Molly when she looks up stunned.  
“Home experiments?” he asks. His exterior remains composed, but Molly can almost sense his excitement just from the way his voice catches on the four-syllable word.

“Yes,” she confirms. “I occasionally do so at home.”

“And you never told me?” Sherlock gapes back at her, confronted for a moment, before his flat smile becomes a toothy grin. “Can I join you?”

Mary lets out a snort before Molly can answer and the two shoot her a displeased glare.

“Fine, fine. I’ll leave.” Mary grabs her jacket and backs away from her friends, muttering _weirdoes_ on the way out.

“So… Experiments. When? What are we doing?”

“There is no _we_ , Sherlock.” Molly ushers for him to leave the lab and flicks the lights off as she steps around him.

“Come again?” Sherlock waits back in partial darkness, but Molly gives no indication she’s staying for him.

With a quickened pace, Sherlock catches back up with Molly on the way to the elevators. “Are you joshing me, Molly Hooper?”

She doesn’t turn her head, knowing those puppy dog eyes are her kryptonite, and replies with a _no_.

“Why?”

They get to the elevator now and it’s almost impossible for Molly not to look back towards the consulting detective.

“Why?” he repeats again.

“Because your place is a mess, Sherlock!” she yells out, startling him. “I don’t want my flat looking like a bomb hit it, okay?”

“But…” Sherlock can’t seem to comprehend her refusal.

“I provide you with countless body parts and hours of lab access here, Sherlock. Why do you need access to my personal experiments as well?”

He’s about to answer, matter-of-factly, when he reconsiders. Turning abruptly, he heads for the stairs.

“Sherlock,” Molly calls after him.

“It’s fine,” he replies back to her. “Perfectly fine.”

 

“How was your morning, Sherlock?” Molly asks, while walking out of her bedroom carrying an empty soup bowl from lunch.

Her question is met by silence.

“You’re marvellous at breaking in, but quite loud you realize?”

He stands awkwardly from his calm and centered position on her couch, legs crossed, hands perched on his lap, and walks toward her kitchen.

“You’re not mad?” He’s confused.

Molly laughs, despite her finding none of this amusing.

“This is you we’re talking about, Sherlock. I didn’t honestly believe that you’d take no for an answer yesterday.”

He stews over her admittance with a stoic face, before quickly getting over it. “Yes… Well, what do you have planned today?” He strides up to the other side of her counter sporting that stupid boyish grin. “I’ll let you choose since this is your home.”

Molly holds back another sarcastic comment and puts her dish away before answering him. “I’m distilling lavender.”

“What’s that going to do?”

Molly’s brows furrow. “It’s fun, Sherlock. And cheaper than buying essential oil from a naturopathic store.”

“Fine. I’ll wait for you to set up.”

Molly stares back with a blank expression, waiting.

“Fine. I’ll help you set up.”

“Thanks for offering.”

 

Sherlock is struggling with the metal clip supporting the larger round-bottom-flask when Molly steps in to takeover.

“Will you just let me?” Sherlock bumps her back to her side of the counter with a lingering look.

With a groan, Molly obliges. “Just don’t break anything.”

Sherlock sets the piece down, turns to Molly and grab her shoulders. He doesn’t know how to handle this new breach in physical space and releases her soon after.  

“Relax,” he instructs her after a moment of silence. “I’ll be careful.”

Molly hears his words pass through her ears, but she can’t seem to focus on anything other than his hands that have now, unfortunately, returned to his side.

“Here.” He hands her the clip. “You finish setting it up and I’ll wash out the used glassware.”

Molly nods to herself, taking the clip, and tracks the man as he turns back to the sink behind them, mind far from the distillation.

Their experiment continues on without any hitches and Sherlock surprisingly holds back any signs of boredom. The water in their larger flask nears boiling and they wait expectantly for the first drops of oil on the receiving end.

Molly is leaning over, with goggle covered eyes trained on the apparatus, when she feels Sherlock’s leg brush the back of hers from behind. He sniffs close to her shoulder and she turns to sneak a glance at him.

“You smell –it smells great,” he comments, flinching slightly at his slip-of-the-tongue.

“Lavender is my second favourite oil, actually.”

“Second to what?” Sherlock asks as Molly turns to face him.

Her eyes land on his lips and she all but whispers, “mint.”

Sherlock’s mind, in this instant, can’t help but thumb through every stored bit of information on Molly smells. Her hair in the morning, her work clothes, her casual clothes, the perfume she wore on the dates he crashed and the one she wears on the days that he visits.

“It’s better than toothpaste,” she interrupts his reverie. “The mint; it’s natural.”

Sherlock leans in again and sniffs. Molly wants to inquire further on the smell, but she can’t tell if he’s smelling the lavender they’re distilling or her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the flask with her lavender boiling, and goes to check on it. Reaching out, she takes hold of the flask and swirl its contents, when suddenly common sense and the nerve endings in her fingers protest and she pulls back with a yelp.

“Hot, very hot,” she repeats over and over again to herself like a mantra. She struggles with removing the blue nitrile glove, before tossing it to the floor. Her untoasted hand turns on the faucet behind her and she sticks her scorched fingers under its cold stream.

Her sweet relief is only momentary before Sherlock turns the temperature of the water up to room temperature.

“What the hell?” Molly retorts.

Sherlock’s hand remains unmoving over the faucet and he meets Molly’s eyes with raised brows.

“Room temperature is better than cold water for burns, Molly.”

She looks back down at her shaking hand to see that the fingers and palm are now a vibrant red. Another much larger hand covers her wrist and holds it under the stream.

“You should leave that under there for at least ten minutes,” he instructs in a passive tone, despite the soothing circles his thumb is making over the inside of her wrist. “I’ll find you some burn cream to apply after.”

Molly nods, keeping her eyes trained on her hand and not the tall man beside her. He leaves her side seconds later and returns with a barstool.

“Hop up,” he tells her.

Trying not to remove her hand from the water, she aimlessly feels around behind her for the chair’s crossbeam with her foot. After coming up short for a good ten seconds, Sherlock hoists her up with his hands on either side of her waist and sits her down on the padded seat.

“Better?” Sherlock clears his throat. _Unfamiliar territory clearly breached,_ he thinks to himself with the shake of his head.

“Yes.” Molly turns to see him trying to lean nonchalantly against her counter. “You seem quite knowledgeable on the subject, Sherlock. Experienced with burns, are you?”

Sherlock’s lip twitches up into a half smile, but it falls quickly.

“Don’t joke, Molly,” he replies behind half-closed lids. His voice is unwavering, but something tells Molly it isn’t her bad sense of humour that has the consulting detective so serious and concerned.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassures him, resting her free hand on his chest.

All Molly gets in return is a nod, but the way his chest deflates under her touch is all too telling.


End file.
